


Untitled Hawaii 5.0. Ficlet

by Talithax



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Christmas, Humor, M/M, POV First Person, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternative (somewhat fluffy) ending to Episode 12, Hana ‘a’a Makehewa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Hawaii 5.0. Ficlet

====================  
Untitled Hawaii 5.0. Ficlet  
by TalithaX  
====================

 

As sad and sorry excuses for Christmas trees go mine would just about have to take the cake. In fact, I’m pretty sure that if there was a magazine devoted to down on their luck trees mine would be the December cover star. It’s not cool, like those upmarket department stores would have you believe a twig painted white with three silver baubles hanging from it is, it’s just tragic.

A bit like me, really.

Here it is, Christmas Eve, and here I am sitting in a – no, make that my own, all of my very own – soul-destroying apartment wearing the far too baggy red pants of a Santa Claus costume and sucking on a beer.

Alone.

The six – count ‘em – hours I was so magnanimously allowed with my daughter over Christmas have, just like that, been and gone and all I have to look forward to tomorrow is a hangover and a lunch of whatever I can scrounge from the fridge.

That’s if I can even be bothered dragging my sorry ass out of bed, that is.

A loud rap on the door offering a welcome interruption to my increasingly maudlin thoughts, I place my beer on the rickety coffee table and, all the time keeping one hand on my pants to stop them from falling down around my knees, make my way over to the door. Opening it, I find the grinning face of a lunatic -- yet an instantly recognisable one -- peering at me and grunt what, given my mood, passes as a greeting. “If you want to borrow it, the answer is no.”

“If I want to borrow what exactly?” Steve McGarrett queries, slowly looking me up and down before shaking his head. “If it’s the suit, my own answer is no. Same goes for that whatever it is with the bauble on it by the window. And if it’s whether I want to borrow your life, the answer is I’d rather skinny-dip with a school of ravenous man-eating sharks. Have I covered everything?”

“Other than what you’re doing taking up space on my doorstep and interrupting valuable drinking time, then, yeah, I think you’ve covered everything,” I mutter, releasing my hold on my pants to gesture him inside with a grand, sweeping bow. This of course is a mistake and when I turn to head back to the sofa my pants start their inevitable descent and my attempts to catch them very nearly cause me to fall spectacularly on my ass.

“You really are a picture of elegance,” my too-smug-for-his-own-good partner comments from the doorway.

Giving my pants one final hitch up, I sink down on the sofa and casually flip him the bird. “Just consider yourself lucky I’m wearing boxers and didn’t decide to go commando. Otherwise you'd really have copped an eyeful.”

“Oh. Trust me. Considering myself lucky doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Smirking, McGarrett steps inside and leans, all six foot whatever of him, against the wall. Even with the stupid tatts poking incongruously out from under the rolled up sleeves of his white shirt he looks out of my place in my scungy apartment and I wish he’d get on with sharing his reason for being here so I could just get back to – feeling sorry for myself – my drinking.

“Asshole.” I toast him with my beer. Manners, which believe it or not I do actually pride myself on possessing, dictate that I should offer him one but, just wanting him gone, I remain seated and don’t so much as tilt my head in the direction of the fridge. “Anyway, what can I do for you? We’ve already covered what you don’t want, so what... do... you want?”

“I…” His smug, confident – make that his natural – expression slipping a little, McGarrett shrugs and in an oddly defensive move folds his arms across his chest. “I want you to come home with me,” he states, his words sounding very much like English to my ears yet at the same time making no sense whatsoever.

He wants me to what, now?

I stare at McGarrett – no doubt with my mouth hanging open like an idiot because, hey, if you’re going to give the appearance of being as pathetic as you feel you should do a good job of it – and he stares back. Impassive blue eyes gaze at me – hell, if not straight through me – without giving so much as a hint of what he’s thinking and although I don’t want to I can feel myself beginning to squirm.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” I retort, toasting him again with my beer before taking what suddenly feels like a greatly needed mouthful. “Cheers.”

A half frown ghosts over McGarrett’s face and his eyes ever-so-slightly narrow. “What do you say?”

For Christ’s sake. What is it with this guy? Is he, as per my favourite pet theory, actually an alien after all? Or is it just me? Maybe I’m the alien as I'm just not getting what's going on here. I mean, I can’t recall him even having asked a question. “What do I say to what?”

“I asked you if you wanted to come home with me,” McGarrett retorts, making no attempt to hide his exasperation. “Just… Forget…”

“You didn’t,” I interrupt with a shrug as he falls abruptly silent and goes back to glaring at me.

“I didn’t… what?”

“You didn’t ask whether I wanted to come home with you.”

“Yes I did. If your meagre attention span wasn’t so focussed on the bottle in your hand you would have heard me. I clearly…”

“No you didn’t.”

“I did!”

“Didn’t.” Why is playing verbal games with this guy always so enjoyable? Seriously. It’s just one of life’s little mysteries.

“I did so too.”

“Didn’t.” I dig a handkerchief, unfortunately not white but it’ll have to do, out from between the sofa cushions and wave it at him like some sort of peace offering. “What you said, Mr Thinks He’s Always Right But Rarely Is, is that you want me to come with you. Hear that? Want. Not… Would you like. Or… I was wondering. No. Just… I want. How was I supposed to know you were expecting an answer?”

“Oh.” McGarrett shrugs and has the good grace to smile sheepishly. “Sorry. I forgot you weren’t from around here and needed things spelt out for you. So… Hopefully in a way that you can comprehend this time, allow me to try again. Would you like to spend Christmas with me?”

Not yet having drank enough to not know a good offer when I hear it – my own company, after all, being something I’m already over and Gracie’s only been gone for thirty minutes – I would. I really, really would. Not, however, that I’m going to tell him this. God, no. He might think I’m more desperate than I look or something.

“Why on earth would I want to do that, huh?” I drawl, gesturing expansively around my shit box of a home. “Behold. I am the king of all I survey. Why would I want to give all this up to spend Christmas with… you… at Casa McGarrett?”

McGarrett shrugs again. “I don’t know. For some, obviously incredibly stupid reason I just thought you might have liked some company for Christmas. But stay here and bask in your hovel for all I care. I’ll think of you tomorrow morning when I hit the surf.”

The beach? At Christmas? It’s just not natural. “It’s Christmas Day, not a surf carnival,” I grumble. “It should be cold and snowing, not a balmy eighty degrees with perfect surf.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” McGarrett replies, giving me a look that can best be described as pitying. “If you must know, the other reason I’m putting myself out and opening my home to you is because I’m afraid it might all get too much for you tomorrow morning and you’ll just stick your head in the oven.”

“Stick my head in the oven, huh?”

“Mmm… Think about it. Christmas Day. All alone and unable to cope with the weather being nice for the first time in your life. Then, just when you think it can’t get any worse, you see that fucking awful tree and that’s just it, goodbye cruel world.”

“So, really, what you’re doing is some form of community service and saving me from myself.”

“Exactly! Now you’ve got it.”

“You’re all heart.”

McGarrett smirks and, retrieving them from his pocket, dangles his car keys from his finger. “So, are you coming?”

“What makes you think I don’t have plans already?” I query as I do a damn fine – even if I do say so myself – job of disguising my eagerness by taking another long swallow of beer. “You’re not my keeper, you know.”

“And thank God for that,” McGarrett mutters, rolling his eyes heavenward. “You don’t have any plans though so quit stalling and give me an answer.”

“It’s not Christmas without Christmas lunch.” He’s got me and he probably knows it, but I’m still not going easily.

“What?”

“That was my cryptic way of asking whether you’re going to feed me.”

“As I’ll have to eat myself, of course I’ll freakin’ feed you.” McGarrett sighs and shoots me a long suffering look. “I… can… cook.”

“Of course you can.”

“What’s the supposed to mean?”

“You can do everything. Hell, you even displayed your prowess with a needle and thread earlier.” I look over at him expectantly. “Actually… Is there anything you… can’t… do?”

“It pains me, but I still can’t just flap my wings and fly,” he replies, affecting a mournful expression.

“Smart ass.”

“You started it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I put my beer down and move forward as though I’m about to stand up. “So what’s on the menu? Turkey?”

McGarrett shakes his head. “I don’t do turkey. At a push I may be able to stretch to chicken.”

“Chicken! Ha! Let me guess, you went back and commandeered one of those decrepit things from the cock fights and now you want to feed it to me. Well, I’m here to tell you…”

“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got an overactive, not to mention scarily creative imagination?” McGarrett mutters, cutting me off mid spiel. “Look. Do you want to come or not? I’ve got food, I’ve got a spare bed and whether you believe me or not I really don’t want you spending Christmas on your own. But… Whatever… I’ve also got better things to do with my time than stand here admiring your Goddamn excuse for a tree all night. So… What’ll it be?”

Sensing that I’ve played him long enough and that I’m danger of losing my Get Out Of Horrible Apartment Free Card if I’m not careful, I grin and stand up. “Just let me get my hat and top.”

McGarrett groans and shakes his head. “You’re not wearing that damn suit.”

“Yes I am,” I beam, grabbing the top and pulling it on. “It is Christmas, after all.”

~*~*~*~

As prophesised – just call me Nostradamus – I wake Christmas morning with a thumping headache and a mouth that feels like I’ve been sucking on gravel in my sleep. Soft sunlight shines through the gaps in the drapes though and for a nice change the bed I’m sprawled on is actually comfortable. Without Gracie clambering all over me and begging to be allowed to open her presents it still doesn’t really feel like Christmas but, curiously, I’m okay with it. In fact, I’m okay with a lot of things.

It’s Christmas and, despite the issues with sanity he swears and declares he doesn’t have (issues, that is, whereas I beg to differ and will dutifully continue with my endeavours to get him to come around to my way of thinking… and that, of course, is that he’s barking mad with the added bonus of suffering from severe delusions of grandeur), I have a friend who cares enough about me to open up his house and go out of his way to ensure I feel welcome.

It’s almost enough to make a man feel teary.

A man’s bladder, however, thankfully puts paid to that stupid thought by telling me in no uncertain terms that something unpleasant is going to happen if I don’t drag my ass out of bed and go in search of a bathroom. So, not needing telling twice, that’s exactly what I do. Sneaking out of the spare bedroom, I locate a bathroom, relieve myself, wash my hands, peer blearily at my reflection in the mirror for a few seconds before waving the white flag of defeat – why mess with perfection, even if it is unshaven and has vaguely bloodshot eyes? – and going to look for McGarrett.

The house is silent and although I’d like nothing more – I am, let’s face it, an invited guest – than to hear the sizzle of bacon coming from the kitchen I can’t say I’m surprised at the apparent lack of movement. For all his super hero qualities McGarrett is something of a lightweight in the drinking stakes and, seeing as he foolishly tried to keep up with me last night, is probably still passed out in a stupor somewhere. Of course, the other option is that he’s shaken off his hangover like he shakes everything off and is out there taking on – and beating into submission – the waves.

For my own purely selfish, possibly even slightly malicious sake I have to say I like option one better.

Wandering into the open-plan living area I’m subsequently taken aback by the two surprising sights that greet me. The first would have to be the best fake Christmas tree I’ve seen since being in Hawaii. It wasn’t there last night – of this I’m certain because I can clearly remember the plaintive lament I launched into about McGarrett being some sort of Christmas hating Scrooge who couldn’t be assed making an effort with decorations – but it’s definitely here now. Big, beautiful, dominating the corner of the room and dripping with decorations that range from the classy to the clearly made by the young McGarretts and treasured as precious heirlooms by their parents, it’s certainly a sight to behold.

As is the one sound asleep on the sofa.

Still dressed in the clothes he had on last night, McGarrett sits slumped against the arm of the sofa. While he doesn’t look particularly comfortable it’s clear that he’s dead to the world. Spotting a worn around the edges photo held loosely in his hand, I sneak closer for a better look and see that it’s a family photograph taken many, many Christmases ago in front of the same tree in the exact same corner of the living room it's in now. Mom, dad, son, daughter. All smiling for the camera, a never to be repeated image forever captured on film.

Inexplicably saddened by the photograph, I sink down on the sofa without pausing to think about what I’m doing and this of course causes McGarrett to wake with a start.

Jerking upright, the photo slips from his fingers and he blinks at me as though he doesn’t quite know who I am or what it is I think I’m doing encroaching on his personal space.

Not knowing what else to do, I smile and retrieve the photo from the floor. “Hey. Nice tree.”

“Huh? What?” McGarrett yawns and runs his fingers through his hair, making it stick up all over the place even more than usual. “Oh. That.” He takes the photo from me and places it face down on the coffee table. “I remembered it after you’d staggered off to bed last night and, unable to bear the thought of you whinging all day about a lack of decorations, decided that I may as well put it up.”

“For me, huh?”

McGarrett yawns again. “Let’s just say I don’t like being compared to Scrooge and leave it at that,” he mutters dismissively, not meeting my gaze.

“I can do that,” I murmur, draping my arm – my arm which I swear is operating entirely on its own volition – around McGarrett’s stupidly broad shoulders and hugging him against me. “You know something, you’re alright. I think I’ll keep you.”

“You will, will you?” McGarrett gives me an odd look but, and I’m quietly confident he wants to think about the reason he does this about as much as I want to think about why I put my arm around him in the first place, makes no attempt to squirm free.

“Mmm… Oh! And, hey, Merry Christmas, Steve.”

“Mmm…” McGarrett smiles sleepily as, clearly struggling to keep his eyes open, he let’s his head drop onto my shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Danno.”

~ end ~


End file.
